


Evident

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hank marked Connor up.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 137





	Evident

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There are so many differences between Hank and his lover—everything from the tone of their voices to the colour of their blood. Connor’s a young, beautiful, irritatingly put-together android, and Hank’s an old, tired wreck of a human. One of their most poignant differences is that when Hank’s done fucking, he’s _done_. He’s spent. He lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling, ready to fall asleep at any moment, because he’s not twenty anymore and he recognizes that sleep is a wonderful thing. Pillow talk is alright, but Hank rarely has any energy left for it. 

Connor sits up in bed, the blankets down around his lap, and flips through a tablet like he has all the time in the world. Probably because he does. He powers down sometimes, but Hank thinks that’s mostly for his benefit. Nine times out of ten, Hank passes out while Connor’s still up and moving. 

At least he’s finally convinced Connor to stop bringing cases home. Hank can’t see the tablet Connor’s buried in, but it hopefully it holds some other kind of data. Instead, Hank’s treated to the view of Connor’s gorgeous back: all smooth, creamy skin and taut muscles right beneath the surface. Hank knows they’re not really _muscles_. It’s silicone plating blanketed in synthetic peach. But it still looks great. Especially the small of Connor’s back, dipping down into the soft globes of his ass. Hank sort of wants to reach out and grab it but also knows he doesn’t have the energy to follow through with anything he starts. And once they get going, Connor’s surprisingly eager.

Connor’s also littered in pink bruises and marks—the sharp indentations of fingernails and the damp grooves of teeth. Even with the bedroom light dimmed down and the curtains drawn, Hank can see he’s really done a number on his boyfriend. He didn’t realize he was being that _rough_. He didn’t mean to be. But sometimes Connor just _gets to him_ , and he winds up in a red haze of animal lust without anything holding him back. Connor never tells him to stop. Connor never even tells him to slow down. But sometimes Connor winks and insists _he can take it_ , no matter how filthy or hard Hank wants to go.

That’s all fine in the moment. When it’s said and done, Hank feels vaguely guilty. He knows Connor had a good time, but that doesn’t justify the abstract painting stretched across his back. Hank finds himself reaching to trace across one shallow gouge from his nail. It hasn’t broken skin, but it’s still too vivid for comfort. He gently thumbs the enflamed area around it, and Connor shivers like it’s still _sensitive_. Hank’s still not exactly sure what Connor can feel and what he can’t. Sometimes it seems like _Connor_ isn’t even sure. 

Hank muses aloud, “Can’t you heal these over?” He knows they don’t go past the surface, and Connor’s surface is synthetic. Connor twists, head tilting over his shoulder, eyes peering back. 

He hums, “Yes.”

“You missed a few spots.”

Connor blinks. He frowns, and then he answers, “I prefer to keep those. They remind me of your love for me.” And just like that, he looks around again, back to his tablet, like he didn’t just confess he’s _proud_ of Hank’s interest in him. Hank can feel himself blushing and might be grateful Connor’s not looking to see it. 

In a way, he likes seeing the marks on Connor too. He likes knowing that he _can_ do that; that Connor loves him enough to come into his bed even though he’s washed up and grumpy. He traces a few more marks, and Connor quietly indulges him.

Before Hank’s finished, Connor sets the tablet on the nightstand. He crawls over to Hank’s side and curls up there, tossing an arm over Hank’s sweat-slicked chest. All he has to do is blink his eyes, and Hank’s newly automated light blinks out. He’s thrown into darkness, but he can feel exactly where Connor is. 

Connor murmurs, “Good night, Hank,” and his LED powers down. 

Hank kisses his forehead and returns, “G’night.” He can’t fall asleep _that_ quickly, but he’s satisfied enough to not be far behind.


End file.
